


a love letter to newton's fourth law

by orphan_account



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, based on the 2007 verse, leo's still in south america and raph is still being a reclusive jerk, sweet boys in love honestly, tcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6787357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo's been gone for two years. Raph's been gone—in different ways—for just a little over one. You can't remember when Mikey's laughter went away, but it's not every day the way it used to be, and it's an absence that sits on your mind as heavily as each of your big brothers' do. Hearing it now, in the shadowed alcove of some long-forgotten subway tunnel, where Mikey's fingers are twined with yours and his eyes are the brightest things for miles, makes your heart ache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a love letter to newton's fourth law

**Author's Note:**

> One of the two pieces I wrote for "Experimental Affection," the 2016 DMD anthology.

"Okay," Mikey says. It's the smallest word that's ever built whole castles in your heart, and you just stare at him, uncomprehending, until his bubble of laughter brings you back.

Leo's been gone for two years. Raph's been gone—in different ways—for just a little over one. You can't remember when Mikey's laughter went away, but it's not every day the way it used to be, and it's an absence that sits on your mind as heavily as each of your big brothers' do. Hearing it now, in the shadowed alcove of some long-forgotten subway tunnel, where Mikey's fingers are twined with yours and his eyes are the brightest things for miles, makes your heart ache.

"Okay?" you clarify, while something anxious and delighted curls in the bottom of your stomach like wisps of burning paper, its cinders drifting through the rest of you like warm butterflies. He nods, always so peacefully amenable these days, and holds your hand a little tighter.

You wonder, sometimes, at how agreeable he is now. It used to be that he would argue for arguments' sake, just to get a rise out of you, because harmless banter was one of his favorite past-times. Mikey has such a giftwith words, and winning an argument with him is like running verbal races. You (secretly) enjoyed the banter, too.

But it's been just the two of you for so long that you've taken to holding close every chance you get. Even sparring feels strange, facing opposite each other under your father's keen eyes, when you're accustomed, now, to standing alone save for one another; side by side, so close you can touch.

You think maybe that's why Mikey is so pliable these days. Doing anything together is worlds better than doing anything apart. You lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth, basking in his delighted smile the same way you sometimes bask in sunlight, and take him in your arms; spend the next quarter hour kissing him against the wall, long and slow, until he's trembling beneath your hands.

"Okay," you confirm, on the walk back home, your joined arms swinging between you with every step. Mikey's face is still flushed, and he flashes a cheeky grin at you, fearless and familiar.

And you move forward together. There's no one you'd rather go with than him.

That night, he slips into your bedroom, and you're waiting for him. He slips under the blanket with you, curling against you in a familiar way. You've shared a bed before, you've kissed and touched before, but you've never gone farther. Tonight, though—tonight you have the 'okay' to _take_ him, to make him _yours_ in the only way left that he isn't, and you do. For every hour of the night, every singular moment, you _do_.

For someone so much larger than life, Mikey's so small in your lap; soft and pliant and panting wetly into your neck, a precious pearl of a person, the beads of sweat on his face like art. When he arches it's with a soft sound that goes straight through you, and you lean him down against the bed.

There's a heat in his mouth that belongs there and he's already catching up, kissing back. His fingers rub along your arms, your plastron, your shoulders, one hand ends up curling in the long tails of your mask; he never could sit still. You let him pull you closer, let him lick his way into your mouth, and when you roll your hips into his it makes him moan. So you do it again, and again, just to feel his chest heave against yours in gorgeous sigh after sigh.

" _Donnie, Donnie."_

You wonder if he can taste himself on you, on your tongue, in the corners of your mouth. He watched you with half-hooded eyes when you swallowed, shivered when you licked your lips—and moved with you, when you spread his legs and lifted them, sated and trusting and so open it made your hands shake.

And now he's so close that his lips move against yours when he whispers your name. It's stunningly sweet, and for a moment you exist singularly in the intimate touch, the shared breath. You've been gentle this whole time as you give him your heart and your soul—and somehow you still wish you could give him _more._

You want to give him _everything._ You tell him so, tell him he deserves _more_ —that he deserves _better_ than brothers that leave, and a broken family, and a half-life hidden underground—and his ocean eyes never stutter from yours, drinking you in like you're something ephemeral, something he might never catch a second glimpse of.

There's no way you can cling to this, no way to make it last—not when his voice is so soft and full, not when he's pressing flush against you, his fingers like static electricity where they touch your face. Your pace picks up, though you don't mean for it to, and soon he's calling you with more urgency, and you come to a cocktail of warm breath and his lips on your skin, where he's kissing your name over and over.

You're both spent, both trembling, but it's Mikey who moves first—arms reaching up and wrapping around your head and shoulders, guiding you down, until you're draped heavily over him and your cheek is pressed to the warm cartilage of his plastron.

It's a little amazing, this new level of intimacy that exists in something as simple as just lying there together; something so simple, you've done it a thousand times before, and it feels so _new._

"Mikey—" You're not sure what you're going to say, you just open your mouth and let stupid-sounding words fall out. The technique of having no technique at all gets you pretty far with him. "Did you— if that was—"

"That was _awesome_ ," he tells you, with bright earnest in his voice—like this new love affair is similar to one of the dozens of trivial things you invent in your lab that you go seeking his opinion on, something like the little gadgets or robots you build that he can hold in one hand. And he's so sincere as he kisses the top of your head, already at home in this new place between the two of you, that it breaks your heart at the same time it makes you smile. "You're so awesome, Dee."

He says it the same way he sometimes says _"thank you."_

Wrapping your arms around him in turn, you close your eyes against his heartbeat; and he traces gossamer patterns on your skin with familiar fingers, like he's committing you to memory.

Like he might need this moment to remember you by.

Understanding is a bitter ocean, and you sink into it as you sink heavier into him. You get it now; for a genius _,_ it took you far too long to finally _get it._ Mikey's bracing himself for another goodbye; your baby brother, of all people, is prepared to be abandoned by you. You know better than to take it personally—he isn't doing it to hurt you. He's always so hopeful, and always so willing, and always believes the best in everyone—but a soft, secret part of his heart is guarded, now. And it's _that_ resilient part of him, you know, that keeps him steady every time he passes Raph's closed door, or brings home Leo's cereal by mistake, or misses you at dinner when your work schedules misalign.

You press a kiss against his collarbone, and then another, then _bite_ ; he sucks in a breath, and you worry a small bruise into his bright, freckled skin, sucking and licking until it's a brilliant hue, and Mikey is absolutely squirming, and abandonment is the farthest thing from his mind. You tilt your head a little to admire your handiwork, while Mikey whines and pokes you in the ribs, unable to help the smile curling at both sides of his mouth even while he does his best to sound annoyed.

"Heeey, how am I s'posed to hide that, Don?"

"Don't," you say, and rest your cheek against the mark you made. You want to leave as many marks as you can. You want to teach him—night after night, for as many intimate hours as it takes—that some things, and some people, and some very brave, very _beautiful_ examples of love

always, always stay.


End file.
